Chapter 303: Fall of Argos
Argos was not ready.
The city of bronze walls and marble temples had always prided itself as untouchable, a jewel of the Peloponnesus. Its warriors trained in the shadow of colonnades, its priests boasted of blood-offerings that kept the favor of Olympus secure, and its rulers believed themselves guarded by every oath sworn in Zeus’s name.
But none of those oaths meant anything to the sea.
Poseidon stood at the edge of the Argive gulf, his trident planted into the sand. The morning sun stretched across the water like molten gold, but beneath it, the tide whispered of war.
From here, he could see the harbors — ships moored in neat rows, merchants shouting in their markets, fishermen dragging in their catches. None of them yet realized that the still water lapping at their ankles was not natural. It was breath. His breath.
The tide shifted in rhythm with his heartbeat. Every exhale pulled the water further ashore. Every inhale dragged it back. And though it looked like nothing more than the morning tide to mortal eyes, Poseidon knew: Argos was already inside his lungs.
---
The Watchers of Argos
High on the acropolis, the priests of Hera kept vigil. They were Argos’s oldest order, older even than the kings who now ruled. Their high priestess, Melantha, draped in white linen streaked with blue, stared down at the waters with dread.
"The sea rises too quickly," she murmured. "No storm. No wind. No reason."
Her acolytes shifted uneasily.
"Perhaps Zeus tests us," one whispered.
Melantha’s jaw tightened. "No. This is not thunder. This is the slow hand of the deep. This is Poseidon."
At that name, even the bronze-helmed guards at the temple steps stiffened. Poseidon was not prayed to here. He was feared. Hera’s city had long mocked him, raising temples only to Zeus and his queen, casting salt into the altars meant for the sea god. Argos believed itself favored enough to ignore him.
Now, the sea was coming to collect.
---
Poseidon’s Thoughts
From the shore, Poseidon’s gaze sharpened. He could feel the arrogance in the marble towers, the defiance etched into the statues of Hera and her peacocks lining the gates. They thought him a lesser god. A brother cast in shadow.
He smiled faintly, though the expression carried no warmth.
"They will kneel," he murmured to himself. His voice was low, carrying only to the water. The waves answered by curling higher, hissing foam along the sand. "If not to me, then to the truth of the tide. All walls drown eventually."
The memory of Olympus burned in him — the scorn in Zeus’s golden eyes, the way Athena had turned her spear away from him, the laughter of Hera when he had been named the god of storm and not the ruler of sky. They had all thought him chained to the depths, bound to oceans while they claimed the heavens.
But here, in Argos, he felt the opposite.
The sky above was silent. The marble walls were strong. The mortals were proud. And yet, all of them rested on his domain. All of them relied on ships, on fish, on trade by sea. All of them could be drowned in a single breath.
The balance of power was shifting. And Poseidon meant to tilt it entirely in his favor.
---
The Mortal Panic
By midday, Argos could no longer pretend.
The docks flooded first. Water slithered up through the boards, spilling across merchant stalls. Crates of olive oil toppled, barrels of grain floated like driftwood. Sailors cursed, hauling ropes higher, only to watch them sink again.
"Pull the ships back!" the harbor master roared. "Get them out of the basin!"
But the sea did not allow it.
The ships strained against their ropes, dragged inward by invisible currents that had nothing to do with the wind. Oars snapped, sails shredded. One trireme was ripped entirely from its moorings and smashed broadside into the seawall, scattering men into the rising foam.
In the streets above, citizens fled uphill. They clutched children, carried icons of Hera, prayed to Zeus. But the water followed — not in waves, not in floods, but in a steady climb, as though Argos itself were being lowered into the sea.
And all the while, Poseidon stood on the shore, unmoving, the trident humming faintly at his side.
---
Divine Awareness
He felt them before he saw them.
Eyes. Watching. From Olympus.
The gods had turned their attention to Argos. He could taste their unease in the salt air, feel their whispers ripple across the currents. Zeus, Athena, Hera — all of them glaring down like hawks from their marble thrones.
He welcomed it.
"Look well," he growled, lifting his trident so its prongs gleamed in the sun. The ground trembled. "This city is your altar. And I will carve my dominion in its bones."
Lightning cracked far to the east. Zeus’s warning. But the thunder never reached him. The sea swallowed it whole.
---
The Argive Stand
Argos did not yield quietly.
As the waters climbed the lower markets, bronze-clad hoplites marched to the seawall, shields glinting, spears braced. War drums thundered. The Argive king himself, Lycomedes, rode on horseback before his soldiers, his voice carrying over the chaos.
"Argos does not bow! Not to Athens, not to Sparta, and not to the sea!"
The soldiers roared in answer, stamping spear against shield.
Poseidon almost admired it. Almost.
But he could also feel their fear — hearts hammering, lungs tightening as the salt air pressed against them. Even the bravest warrior could not spear the tide.
The first ranks splashed forward into knee-high water. Shields lifted, spears pointed outward, they advanced toward the shore as though to meet him.
Poseidon lowered his trident.
"You fight shadows," he said softly, though his voice rolled across the water like thunder. "The sea is already inside your walls."
Then he exhaled.
---
The Breach
The tide surged. Not in a crash, not in chaos — but in inevitability.
The harbor burst. Seawater rolled over the seawall like a beast uncaged. Soldiers screamed as their formation broke, shields ripped from hands, horses dragged under in a frenzy of foam. The city’s gates, iron-banded and bronze-cast, buckled beneath the weight of water and shattered inward.
Argos was breached.
Poseidon stepped forward into the flood. The water curled around his ankles like worshipers, rising with him as he walked. His trident pulsed with blue fire, and wherever he looked, the sea obeyed.
Temples crumbled. Statues toppled. Mortals fled to the acropolis, their cries echoing against marble walls now slick with salt.
Above them all, the drowned bell of Argos began to toll.
---
Poseidon’s Reflection
As he climbed the first steps into the city proper, Poseidon’s eyes narrowed. This was not destruction for the sake of destruction. This was declaration.
Every drowned street was a message to Olympus: The sea has risen.
Every toppled statue was a warning: I am no longer chained.
And every mortal scream was proof: The age of Poseidon has begun.
He tightened his grip on the trident, the hum of divine power coursing through his arm. The air itself smelled of brine, heavy with inevitability.
"Argos is only the beginning," he whispered, his voice swallowed by the tide.
And deep within, something older stirred. Thalorin’s abyss, the hunger of the drowned king, pulsed faintly at the edges of his soul.
But Poseidon did not flinch. This was his will, not Thalorin’s. The abyss would serve him, not the other way around.
The gods of Olympus would soon learn that truth — here, in the city of Argos, drowned at his feet.